


No, Not Anymore

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Series: is it true? [6]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Ryden, Rydon, got this idea at a concert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 18:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16068698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: By some twist of fate, he's standing in the crowd of Panic! at the Disco's show. So many things have changed. He knows that.





	No, Not Anymore

The phone screens are already recording, recording, gulping down every bit of information they can and I stare at the stage through them because I feel like I need to or it’ll hurt me, like looking at an eclipse directly would burn your retinas clean off. I stand there, my arms crossed over my chest as though to protect myself from sudden bursts of memories. Think about how once these were flip phones and shitty sliding keyboards, think about how I used to be on the other side of the cameras. I don’t mind being in the dark. The lights blinded me. 

 

The opening band wasn’t too impressive, but I’ve seen worse. Besides, I don’t think I really am qualified to judge anymore. But still. An overexcited frontman can’t make up for slightly offbeat backing tracks and a sleep-deprived drummer, no matter how much he moved around, waved his arms like a kid on a rollercoaster or made the “clap for me!” motion that only got half of the crowd going. 

 

Look, I tried not to notice. 

 

It’s funny how different the usual half-hour that separates the end of the opening band’s set and the beginning of the headliner’s show feels, depending on which side of the curtain you’re on. Backstage, it’s always hectic. Made me sick sometimes, but Brendon was always kind enough to make sure I was okay. I know kindness wasn’t the only thing that drove him, but I appreciated it nonetheless. Maybe not as much as I should’ve. God, I’ve made so many mistakes. 

 

The lights dim a little bit and the crowd reacts immediately, high pitched screams bouncing off any surface they can find. I wince because of the noise but chuckle nonetheless, turning my head to try and find the control panel, tucked away somewhere in the shadows of the venue. This is lighting guy fuckery if I know it. _We like to hear ‘em scream_ , a lighting tech told me once, and I think it was in Oregon. _It’s the only way we have an impact on them_ , he said. _You artists make them scream and sing, but we get to reveal you to them._

 

He was right. I imagine a whole show played in the dark. We should’ve done that. No lights to blind me then. Nothing to make me feel like the shell of myself. In the dark, we’re true. 

 

Ironically, the lights go out as I have that thought and my stomach knots instantly. I have no idea what to expect. I’ve stayed away from all of this for years, and I don’t know what possessed me when I said yes to those free tickets when Dan told me about them. For old times’ sake. 

 

This isn’t old times, though, it’s the exact opposite of old times. This is seeing firsthand how much his performance, his clothes, his singing have changed; how much he’s changed. This was a bad idea, wasn’t it? 

 

But I stay frozen in place and he’s right there before I know it, on the huge screens on either side of the stage. He’s already sweating, but he’s also grinning as he sings, and he seems happy. 

 

He’s wearing all black, leather pants, and he’s happy. 

 

He sings new songs, ones that I’ve never heard. They’re not bad. 

 

They’re different, though, so different. He’s happy.

 

He sings Nine. I haven’t heard it in years. I still remember the harmonies. 

 

He sings I Can’t Make You Love Me, and I put my jacket back on because I’m cold even though it must be a thousand degrees in here. He sings Bonnie Raitt but it’s his words, too. 

 

He sits at his piano, so many feet above the ground, and I remember what he looked like back at another piano on that small stage in Denver, where his dripping sweat was forever captured on video. I remember Karma Police. I haven’t listened to that in years, either. 

 

He sings a song about LA. About hopeless dreamers. He’s just as good as I remember. 

 

He sings another song that isn’t his. A girl on my right glances at me, but it’s too dark for her to make sure I’m who she thinks I am, and Brendon does something scandalous that I don’t catch but diverts her gaze just in time. I take a few steps back to get closer to the wall. Try to become a shadow. You never know. I don’t want to imagine what would happen if someone realised I’m here. 

 

Someone rushing to Brendon after the show. “Hey, Ryan’s here.” 

 

“What Ryan?” He’d say, but he’d know. Of course he’d know. This is LA, not fucking Djibouti. I live here. He knows that. I know that. 

 

“ _Ryan,_ Ryan.” 

 

Zack would lift a disapproving eyebrow. Brendon would take off his blazer, and probably his shirt, too. Throw them on a dressing room sofa; they’d all be soaked anyway. Then he'd look up at whoever brought the news. 

 

“Okay. What do you want me to do about it?” 

 

My heart twists at the idea of those words coming out of his mouth, and that's when I realise that what he thinks of me still matters, despite the fact that it's been years. 

 

Yeah, doesn’t sound like a great plan. Let’s not get recognised. 

 

Phones set on _Recording_ still dot the crowd. They always do, nowadays. There’s even an iPad, its big, rectangular screen like a huge, ugly, neon Pop-Tart. Who the fuck brings iPads to shows? 

 

I force my eyes back to Brendon, only not quite to him. To the guy on his right, and the girl on his left. They’re easier to focus on. I don’t know them, and unlike with Brendon I can’t tell every little thing that’s changed in their demeanour over the years. Because if I look at him, if I really look, it’ll fuck me up. It’ll be like being thrown in a time machine against my will, being sucked back to two thousand and nine, right before things started to fall apart. 

 

I see him onstage and remember that he used to come up to me in his puppet makeup, put his hand on my shoulder or my cheek, softly, as he muttered something about a perfect passionate kiss, and his wicked grin as he pulled away after leaning in dangerously close, revelling in the screams he’d just caused. I can remember his words. 

 

_This is not that dream._

 

_This is_

 

_hard_

 

_sweaty_

 

_crazy_

 

_angry_

 

_monstrous_

 

_fucking._

 

I remember drafting it with him. I remember handing him the laptop on which I’d jotted down a few ideas, remember looking at him as he read it intently, searching for the little smile I knew would appear as he read that last part. I didn’t have to wait long. 

 

“It’s perfect,” he’d said. “It’s perfect, and I need to learn it right away.” 

 

He doesn’t play that song anymore. 

 

I see him onstage but all I can picture is glancing to my left and seeing him there, singing into his flower-strewn microphone. Walking up to him and having him tell me something stupid, away from the mic. 

 

Once, it was “I’ll see you again tonight,” and I still remember the conspiratorial look on his face as he bounced away, the words echoing in my mind. He did, that evening. He tasted sweet, his skin was soft. We shared the night, our dreams, and his bed. 

 

There’s something unreal about being able to say something like that in front of tens of thousands of people, yet have no one hear it. Utmost privacy in blatant daylight. 

 

He doesn’t do that anymore. Not once does he lean towards his guitarist or bassist to tell them something, not once does he touch them. Some part of me wants to be glad that he kept those things for me and only me, but somewhere I know that it's simply because it’s not theatre anymore. Stage antics and crazy costumes are from another era, another decade in his life. He’s not the shy, powdered boy from our first shows, his voice unsure, his movements hesitant. No, that’s gone, long gone. Now he’s the confident frontman of a band that’s not really one anymore. 

 

_Anymore_. What a stupid fucking word. We’re not friends _anymore_. I don’t see him _anymore_. He doesn't need me _anymore_.

 

Anymore is just an excuse not to use the past tense, it’s an euphemism for those who are too afraid to say it’s all over. 

 

And maybe that’s why I leave as the familiar pizzicato starts. I can’t do this. Not anymore.


End file.
